Secrets she knows
by Freya-Rhianna
Summary: Donovan has her hands on an incriminating recording of Sherlock when he was asleep, and learns more than she had ever wanted to. Secrets never stay secret for long, especially when it can end in the humiliation of Sherlock Holmes.
1. I know

"I know," A voice drifted from the entrance of the morgue.

Sherlock's eyes fell upon the figure, but paid it no mind as he returned to the clue ridden body in front of him.

Donovan .

He had not spoken to the woman following the events of the week before, when both Donovan and himself had found themselves hostages for a slightly deranged murderer who was intent on wealth and power, something that he thought capturing the incompetent officer and Sherlock would bring.

Really, Sherlock believed that the man had rather over estimated his worth, but had decided against voicing this opinion the moment Donovan had thought it prudent to open her mouth and start yet another argument between the pair of them.

In such a moment most would have an epiphany of whole-hearted goodness, which (if movies where anything to go by, which they rarely were.) would be shared by those around them and (to increase drama) repair friendships between enemies.

Sherlock and Donovan had experienced no such epiphany, and if anything the already intense hatred had multiplied severely leaving mere tatters of any civil behaviour that they may have been able to achieve if given the correct motivations.

Not that Sherlock was particularly bothered by it, for all intents and purposes the harsh tone Donovan used when speaking to him during the week had allowed Sherlock to stay connected with the world that had been left behind them, something which (although he'd never voice it) he was slightly thankful for.

Sherlock was shook out of his reverie when Donovan gave a slight cough, and he looked up startled having not realised that she hadn't left.

Sherlock spared her only a momentary glance before looking back down at the cold body that was laid over the concrete slab.

"I said, I know." Donovan repeated the word 'know' emphasised by a slight change in tone, which Sherlock cared little for.

"If this is how you go about questioning your suspects, I believe we may have discovered why you seem to get no-where without assistance on your cases, aside from the usual incompetence that is." Sherlock's voice came out as a monotone, a sign that this conversation had him bored, at best.

"I know, about John." A slight scowl had accompanied her words, probably due to what Sherlock had said.

He faltered slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he threw her another glance. "I should hope so, he has been present in your company many times,"

"Don't play dumb with me." Donovan replied.

Another insult was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back in favour of entertaining Donovan's conversation for a little while longer. He considered examining her appearance and stance for clues to what she had meant, but in the dim lighting of the allegedly 'locked' morgue he was allowed no such courtesy, and so he was stuck waiting until Donovan had deemed it an appropriate time to 'cut to the chase'.

Donovan had taken a step closer, allowing the light from a lamp to throw her features into relief. Sherlock's eyes snapped to her face immediately, but his attention was caught in its entirety by the smirk that was spreading across her face.

"You talk in your sleep, where you aware?"

Sherlock's lip curled down on one side, he could sense that this was going in a bad direction but he wasn't entirely sure why. "I was not." He replied shortly.

"Well you do."

Sherlock's eyebrows had lifted disbelievingly, a sign Donovan had obviously been hoping for, as she cut to her next piece of prepared dialogue almost immediately.

"I can show you if you don't believe me." Sherlock wondered briefly whether he'd really be given a choice, but his suspicions were laid to rest as Donovan produced a small device from her pocket.

Sherlock recognised it immediately, but if anything it just sent another wave if panic through his chest ( a feeling he had experienced before, but was un-used to). "Been recording me sleep?" He let out a dry chuckle "that's an all time low, even for you."

"Let's just call it an experiment." She sneered back, dropping all pretence of being friendly.

The click of her finger on the play button was loud and echoed around the otherwise empty room but the noised that followed were far more so.

" _Oh God,...ahh...like that...bloody HELL." _The voice undoubtedly belonged to Sherlock, and the man in question felt heat rise to his face as Donovan grinned triumphantly.

" _Ah...John."_

A second click filled the room, leaving only silence in its wake as it consumed the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"Anything you'd like to say?" Donovan's smirk had taken on a new level of self-satisfaction, and Sherlock could do nothing to remove it; only stare wide eyed at the electronical recorder still held in her hands.

"It was clearly something the murderer had given me that made me...say such things...it means nothing." Sherlock covered smoothly, but he could tell that Donovan was not buying it.

Another step closer.

"I don't think John will see it that way." Her voice came out only as a whisper and Sherlock could hear the threat within her words.

"...What do you want?"

"I haven't decided, I'll let you know." And with one more look over her shoulder, Donovan took off out of the room leaving Sherlock to wallow in self-pity and quite frankly, horror.

**xXx**

Sherlock had returned much later than he had intended, the rain had been pouring from the skies outside, and he was now drenched from head to foot in ice cold water.

The coat wrapped around him had been little help in protecting him from the onslaught of rain, and had even failed in keeping him warm.

Still, Sherlock had welcomed the slightly numb pain only too gladly; hopeful that with any luck the water could wash away the events that had transpired earlier that day.

It was exactly 12 o'clock when Sherlock burst through the doors of 221b Baker street, and immediately Sherlock spotted the form of his room-mate (and incidentally the source of his distress) lying strewn out across the shared sofa.

His ever so slightly silver tinted hair was ruffled as if he had been running his hands through it, and Sherlock was forced to avert his gaze immediately as he made a beeline for his bedroom.

The sight of his room mate had only reinforced the impications of the sound track in Donovan's possesion, and a fresh wave of nausia began to overcome his senses.

What if she told Anderson? The mocking would be endless, and the whole of Scotland yard (and his brother no doubt) would find out within the hour.

That, he could stand. Sherlock had, after all, become used to the taunts that had been shouted at him at any given time, but if she told John...

Sherlock stuffed his face into the pillow that decorated the top of the bed with frustration.

It didn't take long before his over worked brain began to shut itself down, and allow him some peace.

The only thing he could think as he drifted off, his mind flickering back to the moment when Donovan clicked on the recorder, was _why hadn't he been surprised to hear John's name emanate from the thing?_


	2. Subtle

S_herlock_ had spent the following morning successfully avoiding both John and Donovan, leaving an utterly perplexed John in his wake.

Well...Sherlock assumed he would be perplexed, it seemed like a John-like reaction to have to a problem, but he couldn't say for sure having not seen the man for at least 4 hours (the contact in the taxi on the way to the crime scene was unavoidable).

Sherlock's head was hurting far more than was practical when he hunched over the deceased's body, micro-glass in hand.

Even Sherlock's skull that took residence on the mantelpiece was no help when it came to decoding this problem, and Sherlock had almost been tempted to shatter the blasted thing. _Almost_.

What was the point in having a skull if it couldn't tell him the answers?

At that point, Sherlock would normally have turned to John for help but in this situation that was...impossible.

"Find anything yet?"

Sherlock was momentarily distracted from his thoughts by Lestrade's question, who he had only just noticed was hovering beside his left shoulder.

"Of course," Sherlock could practically hear the cog's in his brain relaxing as they returned to what they did best "This coat, is designer made. The state of the rest of her clothes suggests that this coat is not something she could afford, unless of course she bought it from a charity shop, which she did not as this coat is tailored to fit her. A gift then. Her ring is a cheap imitation of a much more expensive ring, and the colouring suggests the metals not even real; her husband could not have afforded the coat either. The coats far too expensive for a friend to bother buying it. And then it's subtle enough for most to not even notice it. Probably received from a secret lover."

Satisfied with his deduction, Sherlock made to stand only to be stopped by a withering glare sent his was by Anderson.

"Not that that helps us at all, we still have no idea who or where this alleged 'Lover' could be,"

"I'd suggest interviewing the next door neighbour." Sherlock announced with a quirk lip, obviously entertained by Anderson's ignorance.

Anderson let out a suffering sigh "and why is that?"

"Most people don't scratch the name of their next door neighbours onto their forearm,"

**xXx**

The case had been easy, insufferably so.

As it turned out the Women had clinical depression, and after the ending of the affair between herself and her next door neighbour she had...gone off the rails so to speak.

The neighbour had, as Sherlock suspected, murdered the woman but claimed it to be self defence.

Sherlock couldn't care less, but ended up proving the neighbour was correct regardless.

Still, with no case to focus on Sherlock's mind began to wander back to last night without his permission.

He eventually had to speak to John of course when Lestrade had them bundled into the police station later that day (something to do with paperwork), and Sherlock could see that John was confused and...was it sadness that was shining in his eyes? Perhaps, Sherlock always had a hard time to distinguish such emotions, but then the situation would be a plausible time for such an emotion to rear its ugly head.

After all, John was still hopelessly clueless as to why Sherlock was avoiding him, and Sherlock rather hoped it would stay that way.

John uttered a quick excuse before making to stand, Sherlock's eyes were trained on his friend until the door of the office swung closed behind him.

Sherlock made to stand also, but a hand on his sleeve prevented him from moving all that far.

"Donovan." He said coldly, subtly trying to remove her hand as he raised an eyebrow enquiringly.

By this point only Sally and himself were left, most just wanting to avoid the scathing argument between Sally and Sherlock that was inevitable and hoping not to get caught in the middle of it.

"Sherlock," Sally smirked, her tone far too pleasant to be comfortable.

"You wanted something," Sherlock replied, indicating the hand still tethered to his shirt's sleeve.

"Yes...I..." She hesitated, his right hand reaching behind her own head to stroke the skin there in thought. "I'm not going to tell John...at least, not right now."

If she had intended that to be comforting, it was not. It still held the threat that at some point, she would, and it could still happen at any moment.

"Lord knows that man could do far better than you," She paused to eye Sherlock to emphasise her point "But...even I can see that you distancing yourself from him is doing no good for anyone. You should just man up and tell him how you feel." It sounded to Sherlock rather like Donovan was having to force the words out; giving up a hold over Sherlock must have been hard, and he appreciated it to an extent.

However the point still stood;

"I do not have feelings for John." Sherlock insisted, his eyes narrowing defiantly. "I don't have feelings for _anyone_, remember?"

"Oh, but this begs to differ." Sherlock hadn't even noticed the device until she clicked the on button and it began to produce the obscene noises once more.

This time round she left it running slightly longer and Sherlock learnt that, apparently, he had wanted John to...say his name was it?

Sherlock's face flushed with anger and embarrassment, but not before he took a panicked look around their surroundings fearing that John had been hidden beneath the desk, or something else equally ridiculous.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd give me a warning before you do that again." Sherlock spat, his fingers turning up the collar of his coat in agitation, now slightly uncomfortable as Donovan regarded him through an all-together too cheery smile.

"Not denying it now then?" Sherlock glared at her again, and opened his mouth to sprout more denial but Donovan cut him off before he got the chance "As much as I love to see you get flustered over..._John" _She dragged his name out, "It would be far more entertaining to see John's reaction don't you think? You tell him, or this will." She held up the recording device.

Sherlock span on his heel in anger, storming out of the room before Donovan could get another word in.

Sally sighed as she watched him walk away, her hand falling back to her pocket to allow the recorder to fall back inside it.

"Cruel to be kind," She murmured, before taking off out of the room also.

Neither spotted the figure crouched beside the door just out of sight.

Anderson smirked to himself.


	3. Establish

**Hey ^.^ thank you for all the reviews, I really appreciate it (: Also, I'm sorry this one is shorter than usual, it's just that I've been at school all day, which is getting in the way of precious writing time :P still, I got it done ^.^**

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><p>"Sherlock." John's voice called from somewhere deeper in the flat.<p>

The man in question faltered slightly, taken by surprise at the unexpected announcement, but turned to face the noise none the less.

"Yes?" Sherlock said, allowing his arms to fold across his chest in an heir of boredom to mask the unadulterated panic that had washed over him as soon as he had heard his name.

Had Donovan said something? He wouldn't put it past her, after all she already knew that Sherlock was not going to mention anything to John if he could help it.

Which of course he could not, the cards for this game lying firmly in her hands.

This thought alone discomforted Sherlock enough for him to decide it wasn't worth thinking over.

"You've been avoiding me."

Still the room remained silent, un-unnervingly so , but it was a statement not a question and so Sherlock felt no obligation to reply.

John however looked like he was still expecting a reply and so he stood still in his position by the bathroom door that he had just emerged from.

From what Sherlock could see his hair was only slightly damp, but his clothes were practically soaked through and clung to his body; he had obviously taken the time to run a towel through his hair, but did not bother with the rest of his person.

The lack of jumper suggested that the shirt he had been wearing had only been intended as a go between, until he could cover it with his usual favourite jumper.

A strange thing to do given the state of his shirt; the wool from the jumper would be ruined...perhaps he had not intended to wear the jumper at all, but then the hand pulling uncomfortably at the hem of his shirt suggested he had no such intention, already craving the warmth of his jumper.

He must not have had time to dry of his actual body so he must have been rushing for whatever reason.

The fact that he was stood here now (a button done up in the wrong hole) meant he must have been rushing out to speak to him.

Sherlock frowned ever so slightly, had he expected him to leave or something? Why couldn't this conversation wait? Once again Sherlock's nerves where sent into overdrive.

"Stop analysing me." John huffed, his arms winding themselves around his chest self-consciously.

The word 'sorry' was on the tip of his tongue, but somehow the words "Have you spoken to Donovan?" tumbled from his lips in its stead.

John's frown deepened, and Sherlock began to mentally run through a list of excuses that could ease the tension.

"No."

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, quite enough for John to not hear, but loud enough for Sherlock to shake himself slightly. Why was he worrying so much?

"Look, you avoiding me. Has it got something to do with Donovan?"

Yes "No, of course not." Sherlock rolled his eyes for added effect.

"So you admit you've been avoiding me?" John raised an eyebrow as he awaited Sherlock's reply.

"It's...for an experiment." Sherlock explained hurriedly, mentally face palming (only figuratively of course, lord knows the damage that would do to his hard drive) he had truly cornered himself now.

"an...experiment?" John repeated slowly, his mouth quirking ever so slightly (a tell tale sign of mistrust) "what experiment."

"that would rather spoil the data I collect." Sherlock covered "which would deem this whole exercise absolutely pointless."

"Is... this 'experiment' over?"

Sherlock thought on that for a few moments, the sooner the supposed 'experiment' was over, the sooner he would have to come up with a plausible hypothesis he was testing. "No."

John frowned once more, and Sherlock could see his shoulders visibly slump as he turned away to return to his bedroom.

Sherlock couldn't help the small pang of guilt that struck through his chest at the sight of him, a feeling that transformed rapidly into something quite different as John yawned, his arms rising above his head and taking it with it the t-shirt that now revealed a strip of ever so slightly tanned skin.

Sherlock couldn't see much from where he was standing, but what he could see made his brain shut down ever so slightly, even if only for a moment.

Catching himself staring, Sherlock forcefully dragged himself away from the base of the stairs, and towards the sofa that stretched across one side of the living room.

Throwing himself across its length, Sherlock allowed his eyes to be consumed by darkness as he let his mind wander to what he planned to do next.

He had decided he had several things to establish:

First, he needed to decide on a plausible experiment to help him lie to John.

Secondly, he needed to speak to Donovan and convince her...convince her that it wasn't true?

Sherlock sighed loudly; this wasn't going to be easy. Even if Donovan would finally believe that Sherlock does not have feelings for John, it still wouldn't be likely that she'd leave it at that. Donovan rarely had the upper hand, and she wouldn't relinquish such power all that easily.

As Sherlock allowed sleep to shackle his mind into a state of uselessness, Sherlock couldn't quite ignore the nagging feeling that maybe the first thing he should establish is what _are_ his feelings towards John?

* * *

><p><strong>I know! no Anderson quite yet. I feel like a douche leaving you guys hanging like that, even I'm curious as to what Anderson is going to do with what he knows and I'm writing it . Still, Hope you like it (:<strong>


	4. Anderson

**I'm sorry this took so long guys "/ School's been crazy . But I've written the next one now ^.^**

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><p>Sherlock had spent the majority of the next case carefully avoiding Donovan, which had only really succeeded in capturing the attention of Lestrade who was eyeing Sherlock with increasing suspicion every time he would duck behind John in Donovan's presence.<p>

Lestrade however, had little time to ponder over it having been caught in the middle of a national crisis (or so Mycroft had informed him upon paying a visit to the DI earlier that same day).

Still, Lestrade was beginning to worry for the consulting detectives sanity.

Well...Beginning was probably not the right term to use, after all Lestrade was always worrying about the other mans sanity, but even more so of late.

Lestrade had believed that Donovan would be able to shed some light on the matter, but she had been acting equally mysterious, all smirks and twinkling eyes.

In fact, Lestrade wasn't sure if he's ever seen Donovan this happy in the presence of Sherlock and in all honesty it was scaring the shit out of him.

The only person who seemed to be themselves today was John, and even he seemed to be separating himself from Sherlock.

"John?" Lestrade called tentatively, not wanting to disrupt the doctor who was crouched beside the second victim of the day.

"Hmm?" The doctor had said, not bothering to raise his head to look at Lestrade but still paying slight attention as he checked the pockets of the victim's jacket.

"Is...Sherlock okay? Did something happen to him?"

John paused at this, this time turning away from the deceased to meet the enquiring eyes of Lestrade.

John shrugged, his eyebrows narrowing into a frown as he lost himself to his own thoughts.

"Well..." Lestrade coughed, hoping to bring John out of his reverie "I hope he's okay."

John's lip quirked upwards at those words, "Yeah...I hope so too."

Silence engulfed the pair once more as John turned back to the body, the smile falling immediately from his lips as he spotter someone standing just beyond the doorway.

"Anderson." He said, his voice border lining irritated as he greeted the other man.

"Freak's pet." Anderson nodded in return, a smirk still tugging at his lips as he stepped into the vicinity.

Lestrade scowled at the expression Anderson had become so fond of using.

John himself however paid him little mind, already making to leave as he appeared to have collected all the information Sherlock had told him to.

"Sorry John," Anderson corrected his earlier comment, not sounding a bit sincere as he reached out to give John a jacket.

John's frown deepened as he clasped his hand around the material, unsure of what to make of this unusual gesture.

"Can you give that to Sherlock for me?" another fake smile plastered itself across Anderson's face.

John eyed the offending object warily as if searching for a bomb that may have been strapped to its interior "why?"

Anderson shrugged "he might need it."

John couldn't possibly fathom what Sherlock would need with a coat that quite blatantly wasn't his own, but found that he didn't have the energy to complain and so nodded instead.

"Sure," But he still shot Anderson a suspicious look as he passed by.

As soon as John was out of ear shot Lestrade turned to face Anderson "what was that about?"

Anderson shrugged as well, and Lestrade could feel his impatience bubble into anger not for the first time that day, but before he had time to say anything of it Donovan could be heard swearing from the other side of the crime scene.

Lestrade shot Anderson a warning look (who was still smiling to himself) before making his way over to where Donovan stood.

"Are you okay?" He asked, startling Sally who obviously hadn't expected to see him.

"Oh...I'm fine," She said absently, her hands patting down the pockets on her person.

Lestrade frowned as this behaviour continued until eventually Sally swore quietly to herself and turned to face the DI.

"It's nothing...just looking for something."

Sighing to himself, Lestrade turned so he was now fully facing the body that Sherlock Holmes was now crouching over having returned from wherever it was he had gone.

"Maybe I should take a holiday." Lestrade murmured to himself, carefully avoiding Sherlock lest he interrupt whatever it was he was doing.


	5. John

John returned to Baker Street a lot later than he had originally intended.

The jacket from earlier was still clutched firmly in his left hand, but John hadn't even thought about the thing from the moment he stepped off the crime scene.

In all honesty, John had been far too consumed in his own musings to care for the unusual requests of Anderson.

John had been debating whether or not he should have returned to baker street at all, but after some personal berating John realised that the flat was his also; Sherlock wasn't letting him crash there out of sympathy, he had just as much right to live there as Sherlock himself so why way he hiding?

John's sigh harmonised with the sound of his feet tapping against the stairs, both sounds echoing around the deserted stairwell as just another reminder of his current state of loneliness.

A mixture of mud and pebbles, no doubt traipsed in by Sherlock earlier that day, was smeared across the wooden floor boards (Mrs Hudson must have not noticed yet) and in a sudden bout of frustration John slammed the toe of his shoe into one of the offending stones, sending it ricocheting against the steps.

Scowling as the abused toe began to sting, John hobbled to a stop, resting momentarily on one of the posts that was spaced every so often up the railing of the stairs.

John was unsure where he had gone wrong recently; he just knew that something had changed between him and Sherlock.

Had the detective grown bored of him? It wouldn't be a too large leap to make from Sherlock's strange behaviour of the past week.

After all, Sherlock was notorious for treating people like his 'play things', but try as he might John couldn't find it within himself to resent him for it.

After all, John knew..roughly...what he was signing up for when he agreed to live with the other man. Granted he had no way of knowing the true extent of Sherlock's narcissism, but after their first meeting John had a sort of indication of what he was truly like.

Really, John had thought he had been improving really. After the events at the pool side that seemed oh so long ago, Sherlock had shaken off some of the bounds that tied him to his way of life, and he at least opened up a little bit (even if only to John).

And yet here they were, or rather here he was.

John was on the verge of losing what could possibly have been the greatest friendship he had ever had, for reasons he could not comprehend.

When had life gotten so complicated?

John had even found himself mindlessly ranting to the skull Sherlock was so fond of the other day, only realising at his second prompt for an answer that the skull was just that; a skull. Long dead and free of any brain cells that could have aided John in his plight to uncover exactly what had gone wrong.

John felt he had spent enough of his time moping, and resolved to just ask Sherlock out right what his problem was.

Nodding his head as i agreeing with his own decision, John swung open the door to his flat.

The sound of screeching violin claimed his ears almost immediately, and it took John a few moments to compose himself as he removed the hands that had instinctively clasped themselves around his ears (jacket in tow)to drown out the racket.

"What are you doing?" John ground out, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the violin.

The sound stopped only momentarily; long enough for Sherlock to shoot John with a withering glare.

"I'd of thought that obvious." He stated, as the sound of music commenced yet again.

"Clearly not." John grumbled to himself, stalking past Sherlock irritably in the general direction of his room.

Miraculously, John soon found himself standing at the foot of his own bed; how he'd gotten there he could not quite remember.

It was only then did John realise that he still had the jacket in his left hand.

Rolling his eyes at the material, he placed it carelessly over the duvet on his bed.

Stripping out of the clothes he had worn for the majority of the day, John switched the harsh clothing for a much softer cotton that he often wore to bed during the winter months.

Satisfied with his new attire, John reclaimed the coat and made his way back to the living area were Sherlock was still playing ('playing' seemed like a too nice word to describe what Sherlock was doing) the violin.

John made several attempts to catch the others attention, but all attempts were left unheeded, and so John merely placed the jacket on the sofa that Sherlock favoured, before heading back to his bedroom.

Settling onto the mattress that held promise of a nightmare riddled night; John attempted to close his eyes but soon felt something dig uncomfortably against his side.

"Hmm?" John grumbled, feeling about under his person until his fingers brushed against something cold (undoubtedly chilled by the night air).

Intrigued, John extracted the item from its prison beneath his back.


	6. Amends

**YAAY! A (slightly) longer one! ^_^ I've been very pathetic when it comes to the lengths of my chapters :P gone are the days when I'd write only 2,000 words before I allowed myself to update. Still, I've been having a hard time finding a balance between speed, quality and storyline. **

**aanyway, thank you so much for the responses I've been getting ^_^ it really means a lot.**

**x**

Upon uncovering the device that had been digging so painfully against his spine, John proceeded to lay the object at the centre of his bed whilst he retreated to the opposite end.

The thing seemed to be a simple creation; most likely some sort of music player or, judging by the buttons that were engraved on one side, some form of recording device.

Either way, John was in no haste to test his theory.

The recorder must have fallen free of the jacket pocket that had once resided in the exact spot that John had now placed the recorder; and so John felt, in many ways, obliged to return it to it's rightful spot in the jacket pocket.

However, as John closed his fingers around the rectangular object he had the overwhelming urge to hide it beneath his pillow and never let it see the light of day again, but he couldn't for the life of him work out why.

Perhaps it was the fact that said object had been given to John (to give to Sherlock) by Anderson, and if there was ever a man not to be trusted it was Anderson.

For all John knew it could be a bomb of sorts.

No...no he couldn't hand it over to Sherlock...not quite yet.

Quite forgetting his earlier resolve, John reached his hand out to pull down the brass handle that would allow John to exit his bedroom prison to the Living room beyond, with the intentions of probing Sherlock for more information over the origins of the jacket that had been left before him.

It was only when John's sock covered feet touched on the rug of the living room did John remember Sherlock's supposed 'experiment' and realised that Sherlock would be unlikely to say more than a few words to him, let alone string out enough words to explain the jacket's purpose.

Still, John could feel his throat drying and he had an insistent thirst that needed to be quenched, and it was insisting that Tea would be the only way to do so.

Grumbling to himself as he passed by Sherlock, who was still stood to the side of the room screeching his violin, John didn't even spare the younger man with a backwards glance as he made his way towards the kitchen were stacks of mugs and the odd decapitated body part towered above the rest of the utensils.

The slight hissing of the kettle provided little comfort as John tugged on the sleeves of his jumper until they covered his hands in their entirety, feeling oddly uncomfortable and out of place without Sherlock's idle banter to ease his nerves.

The click of the kettle startled John slightly, and apparently Sherlock also as the sound of his violin halted, even if only for a second, before resuming.

Taking hold of the slightly too-warm handle, John poured himself a generous amount before replacing it on its stand.

The only tea bag's John could find in and amongst the clutter were cheap and (if experience was anything to go by) slightly foul tasting, but the tiring day had worn away John's usually mature taste buds leaving only a desire for a slight watered down caffeine boost.

Stirring the tea absently with his right arm, John paid no heed as it's contents splashed over the mug's rim and onto the surface below as his mind was far too occupied with thoughts on his eccentric roommate.

Sherlock had turned so his back was pointing to him once again, his suit jacket that he hadn't removed since he returned home was ever so slightly small, and pulling tightly against the muscles on Sherlock's back.

John sighed to himself as he reached for a towel to do some damage control on the Tea-splashed counters, unable to fathom the reasons behind Sherlock's acceding strange behaviour.

Perhaps John's expectations of the other man where to high; he was a sociopath after all. Albeit a self diagnosed high-functioning sociopath.

Still, something didn't quite add up, and John was determined to work out exactly what had changed between the two of them.

"It's dripping." The aristocratic voice spoke.

"Hmmm?" John frowned, taken aback by Sherlock's sudden decision to talk to him after all.

"It's dripping." This time a nod of the head accompanied Sherlock's words, and John could see that the comment was aimed at the tea drenched towel that was leaking it's recently collected liquid back upon the surface of the table.

"Talking to me again I see?" John replied gruffly, making a well aimed throw that left the towel slapping against the cool metal of the sink.

Sherlock's frown was prominent and full of confusion "I never stopped speaking to you John."

John shook his head in exasperation "what about the 'experiment'?"

A slight crease formed on Sherlock's lower lip where his tooth was digging into it as he thought, and John had to tear his eyes away so he could keep a reasonably level head to hear Sherlock's next words.

"I'm not quite sure what to say John." Came Sherlock's carefully chosen words "I'm sorry...truly I am...I never meant to upse-" Sherlock cut off abruptly at John's raised eyebrow. "Did I say something wrong? Like I said, I'm not good at these sorts of things...I just..." his voice trailed off as John's lip quirked upwards in amusement.

"You're sorry?" He was positively smirking now "the great 'sherlock Holmes' sorry?"

"Don't get used to it." Sherlock huffed, his violin falling to the floor as it collapsed into his favourite seat, his back brushing against the material of the forgotten jacket.

"I won't, that's why I'm going to savour this moment for as long as I possibly can." John smirked, falling into the seat opposite.

Sherlock's infamous glare had returned in fall force, but even John could see hints of amusement showing on his friend's face.

"John...Anderson gave this to you didn't he...he gave you this to give to me?" Sherlock's attention had been captured by the jacket at last, and John's curiosity was piqued as Sherlock seemed almost as confused by the gesture as himself.

He nodded unhelpfully; obviously Sherlock already knew where this jacket had come from, and the hand's it was intended to end up in.

John could practically see the cog's in Sherlock's head clicking as he paced the floor before him, his hand tapping furiously against the skin on his own forearm as he thought.

And then suddenly he stopped.

The silence was deafening, and the tense atmosphere in the room was suffocating.

All in all John thought the sensation wasn't dissimilar to that of claustrophobia, of which similar symptoms are an indication.

And then Sherlock's eyes had risen from their fixation on the floor to meet John's, and for the first time since they had met John was sure he saw a look of something akin to panic shining in the detectives eyes.

It was like a mutual decision had been made, as John rose from his spot on the chair also, his mind flying to the small recorder that his bed still hosted.

It was the classical case of The Tortoise and the hare; Sherlock had spent a fraction too long gauging John's reactions and so John was already ahead of him, bounding up the stairs before the other man had a chance to react.

John could hear the threats and pleas being thrown at him, but he knew this may be his only chance. For what exactly he wasn't sure...but he just knew it was important.

"John..John no..." Sherlock huffed, his eyes widened in fear as he spotted the device in John's hand.

It was like he was moving on auto pilot, and John could do nothing but send Sherlock silent apologies for the truths he was about to uncover as his finger clicked down on the play button.


	7. Dear

**Sorry this one took longer than I was hoping...I just...couldn't quite get it right. I'm still not very pleased with it, but I've reached a point where I knew it was essential that I got this right, but at the same time I didn't know how to so I had to make do with what I'd gotten do, otherwise I'd never push past this part of the story. xD Still, I hope you like it (:**

John didn't realise that Sherlock had left until he heard the door to the flat slam close behind him; even then he barely registered the sound.

His legs felt weak, and so he stumbled towards the bed that was conveniently placed nearby.

His feet failing him he tumbled carelessly onto the bed, not even caring as his left foot collided somewhat painfully with one of the stands on which his bed stood.

From somewhere down below, John could hear the door to the flat swing open again and for a few short moments he wondered if Sherlock had returned to the flat, only to change his mind a moment later when he heard Mrs Hudson tentatively call up the stairs.

John's hand flew to the recorder again to click the thing off, but made no other indication that he had heard Mrs Hudson's words.

After a good few minutes, in which he still hadn't responded, the sound of Mrs Hudson's slipper cocooned feet against the wood of the stairs echoed around the eerily silent apartment.

John longed for the sound of Sherlock's violin playing to break the silence, but corrected himself with a quick shake of his head; how could he possibly see Sherlock now?

He was sure that it must have been a trick somehow; Anderson was a smart man despite Sherlock's dismissal of him, and lord knows he certainly had reason to get back at Sherlock.

Albeit this would have been a slightly unconventional manner; but then, Sherlock never did bother with the 'conventional' and so why should Anderson believe the 'conventional' would bother _him._

This bubble of hope was quickly deflated however when John saw the look of horror on Sherlock's face that he was sure was mirrored by his own.

The moans by that point had become far too loud to be ignored, or pushed to the back of his mind, but John was frozen in place (mostly in shock than anything else) and his finger simply refused to click down on the off button.

And then…Sherlock had left without another word.

Other than the fear in his eyes, Sherlock had given no other indication of feeling any form of emotion over the situation, but John hadn't exactly expected him too.

He wasn't one for that sort of thing at any rate, why should things change now?

John had come to realise that the distance Sherlock placed between himself and others was more a defence mechanism than a genuine aversion to friendship (although that was probably a factor, as Sherlock had said before; caring was no advantage.) and this was definitely the type of situation he was likely to close himself away from.

But that was no help for John who was left in the thicket of it all.

"John?" Came Mrs Hudson's voice, ever so slightly quieter than usual confirming John's suspicions that she had, in fact, heard the recording.

John swore to himself as he settled with his back against his more favoured pillow, his fingers still playing lightly with the grooves that ran across the side of the cursed device that had been the cause of his problems.

Eventually, John decided it best to let Mrs Hudson say whatever it was she wanted to say straight away to get it over with, and so he voiced his approval of her entering.

The door was pushed open, and Mrs Hudson took one step inside and carefully closed the door behind her.

Silence still filled the room, only now it was harmonised by Mrs Hudson's slow steps as she paced around the edges of the room, pausing occasionally to feign interest in the many objects that had been placed in various spots around the room.

Only when she had completed one lap did Mrs Hudson finally get to what she really wanted to do; talk. As she always did, John noted with a sigh.

"So…" she began awkwardly, fiddling nervously with her fringe as if expecting John to break down at any minute.

John took pity on the poor women, and so offered a conversation starter "You heard then?"

"It was a bit hard not to," she admitted, her eyes flickering up to meet John's for the first time since she entered the room a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

John's face, however, held no such mirth.

"Is everything okay dear?" Mrs Hudson smiled encouragingly when John quirked an eyebrow, and she perched herself onto the edge of the bed he was still lying on.

John let out a dry chuckle "not quite." His eyes fell back to the floor.

"May I ask, what isn't 'quite' okay?"

John shook his head in exasperation "Do you really need to ask?" John sighed again.

Mrs Hudson shrugged, but appeared to be fighting back a smile as she turned her body so as to faced John at a better angle "I'm afraid I do dear,"

John debated whether it would be worth telling her that he needed some time alone, but John had long since grown frustrated with hiding his emotions, thoughts and concerns to those around him (and despite what Sherlock claimed, disembodied body parts didn't work quite as well.).

"I don't know what I should do." He said eventually, his thumb flicking over the skin on his other hand as he thought of the best was to phrase what he was about to say "Sherlock…He won't want to see me again after this."

"And why ever not? He could not possibly blame you for all of this." Mrs Hudson indicated the room at large with a flick of her left wrist.

"that's not how the world works for Sherlock," John confided, the urge to smirk at his roommate quirkiness was somehow encouraged by his desire to punch the man (like his body was trying to fight off the violence that often dominated his thoughts whenever he got himself into situations that his mind considered to be dangerous). "God, when did things get so confusing."

"All the same, I doubt he would cast you aside quite so easily." Mrs Hudson reassured, resting her hand upon John's shoulder in an attempt at comforting the Doctor.

It did no such thing, in fact it was most counterproductive as Johns mind raced through the possibilities of what could happen next.

"John." Mrs Hudson said, her tone was both comforting but at the same time demanded attention.

John raised his head ever so slightly to see Mrs Hudson rising from the bed, and making her way back towards the door that led to the apartment beyond. Just before she disappeared back behind the door however, she turned to face John one more time.

"You want to know when things got so confusing, you listen to that recording one more time." She offered one more comforting smile before leaving John to his thoughts.

Frowning, John's eyes fell back towards the recorder, his fingers reaching out to grasp the small rectangular object.

This felt like an altogether bad idea, but John was too transfixed on the memory of the sound to stop himself from pressing play once more, his ears practically begging to hear Sherlock's voice just one more time.

"_John" _The voice moaned, and John hissed as he felt shoots of arousal rush through his body towards his lower abdomen, and despite himself John left the recording running a great deal longer than was probably considered sane.

"Shit." John swore, throwing himself backwards against the bed when he noticed a certain problem growing uncomfortably fast at the sound of his friends moans.

The moans grew ever louder, and slightly more frantic as the time dragged on, and John could do nothing but picture whatever Sherlock must have been doing for his voice to sound so husky and layered in passion.

"Sherlock," He moaned back into the empty room, his voice falling on no ears but his own as his vision blurred with sleep and dragged him down into the tempting dreams that only dared to circle his mind during the day but ensnared his senses during the night.

Dreams of a certain dark haired consulting detective.


	8. Tears

When John awoke early the next morning, it was to an empty apartment.

For a few blissful moments, John couldn't quite remember why it was an empty apartment; assuming that Sherlock had left on a case or some other nonsense.

It was only when John passed by the skull that stood on the mantel piece (John was sure it was shooting him judgemental looks) that the events of the night before came flooding back to him.

Groaning in annoyance, John collapsed onto on the kitchen chairs, his head falling to rest on the table surface as he contemplated what the hell he was going to do.

The cool surface of the table was refreshing, and John felt his eyes grow heavy once more as his brain tried to coax him into sleeping for a little while longer.

Still, images of a distraught Sherlock flashed across John's eyes, and wouldn't leave him to rest.

Half-dragging himself out of his chair, John stumbled into the main living room, his eyes falling upon the violin that Sherlock had abandoned the night before in his haste to reach John's bedroom.

Guilt riddled thoughts surfaced in John's mind, and not for the first time John cursed his own curiosity and more importantly he cursed at Anderson.

John wondered whether it would be worth heading down to Scotland yard even if just to punch Anderson in the fact, but quickly backtracked that thought as he realised that if he hadn't already, he probably would tell Donovan what he had done, and John making a big deal about it probably wouldn't help on the secrecy front, and in all honesty he could do without Lestrade and the others knowing about what had happened.

It was already embarrassing enough that Mrs Hudson had heard the recording.

What if Anderson had made other copies of the sound track? He'd probably email it to the rest of the whole damn station.

Of course, however bad this was for John it was bound to be ten times worse for Sherlock.

Sherlock…

The man was still a mystery to John, despite having become quite close to him in the time he had known him, and this really was just the icing on top.

What happened to being married to his work? What happened to the asexuality that John had come to expect from him?

Perhaps…perhaps that was still true.

There was still a chance that the recording was fake…although Sherlock's reaction to John finding out suggested otherwise.

Still, even if it wasn't faked, it probably didn't change anything.

Sherlock was still as…sherlockian as before.

He still held no interest for relationships as far as John was aware.

John growled to himself; he had only just come to terms with the fact that maybe he wasn't 100 per cent straight, and already he was beginning to over think his decision.

Whatever epiphany John had arrived at the night before, he still needed to find Sherlock had some point.

The man was ridiculously stubborn, and wouldn't return to Baker Street unless he absolutely had to, and so it was down to John to find him, preferably before he caused Anderson any harm (as much as John wished it himself).

He barely acknowledged Mrs Hudson's fair well, dreading the smug knowing look that was undoubtably spread across her face.

Still…she did help him somewhat the night before, and so he did tilt ever so slightly to let her know that he was thankful for what she had done.

He said no more however, and promptly disappeared behind the door that exited the block into the street beyond.

Where to begin looking was more of a pressing problem. John seriously doubted Sherlock would go to Angelo's: he wasn't fond of eating at the best of times.

The idea that he had gone to Scotland Yard was laughable at best; the only one he could stand there was Lestrade, and even then Sherlock didn't usually seek Greg out.

John found himself wandering the streets aimlessly, his hand raised upwards to hail a cab but unsure of where he intended to go.

The cool morning air was harsh against his skin, and so John tugged the collar of his coat closer to his neck in an attempt to preserve some of the warmth his body was rapidly losing.

A cab pulled up to his side, and as John settled into the seat a sudden idea sprung to mind.

"Take me to St Bartholomew's Hospital,"

St Bartholomew's was a hospital in London that Sherlock and himself often visited when on a case, and it was the hospital that Molly Hooper (someone John considered to be friend) worked at.

Despite Sherlock's apparent agitation with the girl's infatuation with him, John knew that Sherlock considered Molly a trust worthy person.

It wasn't much to go on, but it was something.

The cab pulled up on the familiar street, and John clambered out of its door while simultaneously shoving a wad of notes in the cab drivers hand.

His thanks went unheard as the cab shot off down the street, but John barely noticed; his legs already carrying him towards the hospitals entrance.

He followed the path to the morgue with ease; knowing the route off by heart from the amount of times he'd travelled down it, and now-one questioned him, his face being a familiar one now-a-days.

Molly was no-where in sight when he stepped into the morgue, and at first John only had eyes for the countless dead bodies that were laid across several examining slabs.

He averted his eyes after a few moments, beginning to feel he was disrespecting those who could no longer protect their own dignity from prying eyes.

He stood in the silence of the room for a few moments, feeling like his search had been futile until he began to hear the scuffling of feet from a room that separated off from the main chamber of the morgue.

Frowning, John cautiously began to make his way towards the sound.

Approaching the entrance to the room, John called hesitantly to the room at large "Hello?"

There was no reply, and the sounds John had been hearing previously cut off.

Stepping out into the room, John immediately spotted a figure huddled at the corner of the room.

"Sherlock?" John asked, recognising the black curls that John had come to identify Sherlock from.

Sherlock raised his head to take in the sight of John standing before him.

Despite the defiance shining in his eyes and the confidence oozing from his purposeful movement, John could see how his eyes were slightly pink at the corners and his breath hitched at the sight.

Had he been crying?


	9. Molly

John immediately rushed to Sherlock's side, collapsing to the floor beside the taller man.

Sherlock shirked away from him, closer to the cool tiling of the walls, his hand's wrapping themselves around his knees.

Sherlock regarded John through slightly misty eyes, but his expression didn't waver, still holding the look of Denial that it had held from the moment he had noticed John's presence.

"Sherlock," John's voice was far too quiet and…soothing…to be considered natural and it was beginning to make Sherlock feel discombobulated.

He was no child to be squawked over, while he was younger than John, and he didn't appreciate being treated as such.

For that reason, Sherlock tore his eyes away from John not wanting to see the sympathy shining in his eyes for a moment longer.

John however, apparently misconstrued this discontent for sadness, and so he reached across to place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder in a manner not dissimilar to the way Mrs Hudson had done to John the night before.

Sherlock hand flew to said arm and gave it a violent push, sending a flailing John backwards, completely taken aback by the sudden change in events and only managing to catch himself at the last moment so he was now supported by one arm and one leg that wobbled precariously under the unexpected weight.

Guilt tinged Sherlock's mind, intensified by the voice at the back of his head saying _'No, not good' _in a voice eerily similar to Johns, but it was quickly outnumbered by the many voices screaming bloody murder at John and what he had reduced Sherlock too.

The emotion that had once caused tears to form in Sherlock's eyes rapidly transformed into frustration.

The frustration then manifested itself as anger. Anger that was aimed at John.

Pushing himself away from the wall onto his feet, Sherlock pushed roughly past John and into the main chamber of the morgue where John had been standing moments before.

John did not dare to follow his friend but instead watched from a distance, cautious but also rather curious.

Sherlock's footsteps were now echoing loudly around the morgue, each step like a gun shot that was aimed at John with no intention of hitting.

John watched Sherlock's internal battle for a good five minutes before he worked up the courage to take another step forward and into Sherlock's line of sight.

This turned out to be a bad move as Sherlock's eyes had snapped to John's face, his eyebrows narrowed dangerously and his hands balled into fists at his side.

"This isn't fair." Sherlock's voice came out much less threatening then had been intended, and much more like a whine that reminded John vaguely of a child not for the first time. "Why do _I_ have to be the one who feels like this?"

Sherlock was unaccustomed to feeling most forms of emotion (aside from intrigue and the occasional bouts of genuine excitement) and much less any form of upset.

There was a time, of course, when such emotions played a regular part in Sherlock's life, particularly during his younger years.

However the transition from child-hood to adult-hood had played its part to Sherlock's advantage (or disadvantage depending on which way you chose to look at it).

And now, all of the progression his mind had made by separating itself from most of the mundane human qualities had backtracked, and left Sherlock back at square one and unsure how to deal with it.

And really it was all John's fault, and so he felt it was well within his right to punch the other man.

He even went to do so, but stopped abruptly when John visibly flinched. The John-sounding voice had returned in full force and so Sherlock let his fist drop to his side, guilt now tainting his anger into something far more mellow, but none the less painful.

"I…Sherlock?" John began hesitantly, his eyes not daring to catch Sherlock's and so instead he stood awkwardly staring at a spot beside an ajar door with his body facing towards Sherlock.

"No!" Sherlock snapped, spinning on his heel and pacing away from John once again.

John was unsure of how to react; Sherlock was extremely unpredictable at the best of times, and even more so in times like these. He would flicker between anger and happiness faster than a pregnant woman, which would often leave John completely in the dark.

Normally however, the unpredictability would be born of a case, and directed at said case in turn. Never before had John felt so unsure of his own standing, and it was putting him on edge.

Before John could stress over the matter for a moment longer he felt hands press against his shoulders and begin to push him backwards until his back collided roughly with the wall behind.

Grunting in surprise at the sudden contact, John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him intently.

Fidgeting under Sherlock's scrutiny, John realised he was now trapped between the taller man and the wall leaving him little room to move and no room to escape from Sherlock's grip.

He could, if need be, have fought Sherlock off of him, but the look in Sherlock's eyes had piqued John's curiosity enough for him to want to stick around to see how this was going to end.

"Just…stop." Sherlock ground out between gritted teeth, his eyes still narrowed and fixed on John. "Stop…stop this."

"Stop what?" John asked, beginning to feel frustrated by the evasive way in which Sherlock attempted to convey his emotions.

"Stop doing whatever the hell it is that makes me feel this way about you." By this point his voice was practically a hiss, and it took a few moments for John's mind to register what he had said.

And then…it just happened.

There was no pre-kiss meaningful look, no deep intense talks, hell John's mind was barely working as he launched himself forwards at Sherlock.

Not one to be out done, Sherlock returned the favour with equal vigour; their lips working in unison as their shoulders rose and slumped with the throes of passion.

As far as first kisses go, it hadn't turned out exactly how John had anticipated.

Perhaps he'd rather underestimated the amount of raw passion that Sherlock was capeable of (a mistake he was sure he wouldn't make again), but John had been expecting an awkward mashing of lips and clashing of teeth.

Or maybe it was more the sensation of Sherlock's hands clutching desperately at his waist that distracted him from any possible awkwardness.

The scent that John had noticed before at Baker Street but never really associated with anything before now filled his nostrils, and suddenly it smelt so very Sherlock that whenJohn inhaled deeply he was practically shuddering at the familiarity of it.

Sherlock was clearly thinking along the same lines as his lips had moved from John's and were now – "_Oh god_ " – nibbling on the shell of John's ear, his nose buried in John's short hair.

Throwing his head backwards, John wondered briefly where Sherlock had learnt to do that, before his thoughts were once again occupied by Sherlock's lips on his.

The dominance that John had stolen at the beginning of the kiss was reclaimed by Sherlock who had pushed John back against the wall once more, his hands flying to the buttons that connected John's shirt while his lips fell to John's collarbone in such a way that John practically mewled his approval.

Raising eyebrows in amusement at the reaction Sherlock proceeded to attack his collarbone hoping to provoke more of the sounds only for an awkward cough coming from the entrance of the morgue to ruin the moment.

Pulling back slightly from John, his chest heaving as he attempted to regain his composure, Sherlock looked across to see Molly standing nearby, her face only showing signs of approval at the scene she had walked in on.

"Just thought that I ought to warn you that a body's being moved down here in a minute, and most people aren't accustomed to seeing two men going at it in a morgue."

"and you are?" Sherlock asked with raised eyebrows.

"I've had my days." She muttered, suddenly nervous once more.

Sherlock noted how…on occasion…awkwardly endearing the girl could be.

Sherlock shook his head, all this hanging around John had made him go (dare he say it) touchy-feely, and it was making him feel slightly uncomfortable.

Speaking of which, Sherlock turned back to face John who looked slightly bewildered at the events that had just transpired.

"Is this when we have the awkward and soul-touching conversation of what this means for us?" John questioned, his mouth tilting up into a small smile as he searched Sherlock's eyes for a clue as to what was going to happen next.

"Oh god I hope not." Sherlock complained, pulling John closer until John's head was buried in the crook of his neck.

Grinning as John's shoulders began to tremble in amusement, shortly followed by Sherlock, Molly gave the couple one last appraising look before leaving them to it, all the while running through a list of possible diversion tactics she could try out on the dead body and company that she had no intention of letting ruin John and Sherlock's moment.


	10. Mycroft

John had been reluctant to move at all the next morning.

In fact, John debated whether it would be worth ever moving again.

His head was resting against the flesh of Sherlock's shoulder, his arm thrown carelessly across Sherlock's middle, and every so often Sherlock would twist his head so he could press his lips against John's forehead.

Sighing in content, John stretched his fingers across the planes of Sherlock's chest so he could run the pad of his thumb across the smooth skin.

"Lestrade will be expecting us at some point." Sherlock voice rumbled, his chest vibrating ever so slightly under John's palm.

"Hmmm?" John commented, barely paying attention as he snuggled closer to Sherlock's shoulder.

"Lestrade," Sherlock repeated, rapidly beginning to lose sight of what he was trying to say. "Case. I think…"

John shook his head in general disagreement to the notion of moving, but was forced to the other side of the bed anyway as Sherlock shifted up into a sitting position.

The covers of the bed that had previously been draped across the two bodies was tugged downwards, and John watched with badly disguised interest until he realised, with voiced dissapointment, that Sherlock was still wearing the trousers he had been the night before.

The removal of said trousers was a line they had not yet crossed.

A fond smile spread across John's face as Sherlock struggled apart from the covers that had firmly entwined itself around his legs.

Straightening his trousers as he stood in an attempt to maintain whatever dignity that had been lost in his tussle, Sherlock made his way across the expanse of the room, still shirtless.

John (who was still reclining on the bed) took the opportunity to watch as Sherlock passed through a beam of light that through the left hand side of his body into relief.

Admiring the way his porcelain skin seemed to almost glow in the early morning light, John figured that he too should be beginning to get ready.

Still, that was easier said than done.

His muscles groaned in protest as he exerted all the energy left in his body to swing his feet around the meet the floor beside his bed.

The floor was uncomfortably cold, even to his sock clad feet, and John cast one last longing look at the inviting warmth of the bed, before he took off after Sherlock.

He almost slipped several times on his journey to the kitchen, his sock covered feet proving to be a fatal mistake as he slid across the kitchen tiles.

Regaining his balance at the last moment with a well-aimed hand that clasped onto the table top, John skidded to a halt behind Sherlock, who was furiously searching for something in one of the cupboards

It struck John suddenly that they hadn't really spoken about what had happened, and he figured (if past relationships where any indication) that it was something they would have to do at some point.

John cringed at the thought, and subconsciously began to shuffle away from Sherlock (who still remained ignorant to John's presence) as he thought more on the subject.

John wasn't even sure how one would go about approaching such a subject with Sherlock.

"I'm going to go take a shower." John announced, backtracking out of the kitchen.

Sherlock made a non-committed murmur of approval, and John could still hear the clatter of objects being moved around the cupboard even as he disappeared into the bathroom.

When John emerged from the bathroom much later on, it was to a silent flat.

Frowning, John wondered if (not for the first time) Sherlock had left thinking John was following him.

Sighing audibly, John rounded the next corner into the living room and promptly gave a startled yelp.

Sherlock had not, in fact, left the house and instead appeared to be staging a whispered argument with his brother Mycroft who was sat on the sofa opposite.

The context of said argument was made abundantly clear as John noticed Sherlock's shoulders tense upon his entrance to the room…ah, they were talking about him then.

Or, more likely, Sherlock and him.

The Holmes brothers both turned to face John at almost the same time, Sherlock delaying so as not appear desperate in Mycroft's eyes, who, in turn, took his time to face John in favour of observing Sherlock with an amused smile tugging at his lips.

It was then that John really took into account his state of undress.

Only a towel was wrapped loosely around his waist, and even then John was frightened that the material would slip at the most inopportune of moments.

It was far too late to leave now, but he had plenty of time to reflect on the awkwardness that was bound to follow.

John could feel a blush rise to his face as Sherlock's eyes skimmed across his bare torso, and even more so when he noticed that Mycroft was determinedly looking anywhere but at him.

Coughing awkwardly in an attempt to break the silence, John shifted his weight onto his back leg as he ran through a list of possible conversation starters in his head.

In the end the best he could come up with was: "This is awkward." As it turned out this did not have the same effect as the acclaimed 'awkward turtle' and so he went on "and a little uncomfortable." Again, the other two occupants showed no signs of adding to the conversation and so John rounded of his statement with; "and I think I should put some clothes on."

Despite this announcement, John found his feet unwilling to move and so, quite unintentionally, John found himself enduring a further few minutes of uncomfortable staring and forced coughing.

Eventually, his feet kicked back into motion and much to his gratitude began to carry him out of the living room.

This utopia of Holmes-free ness was short lived however, as no sooner had he taken a breath of figurative 'hall-way air' a hand was pulling on his shoulder forcing him to turn back around.

Lips where upon his immediately and John almost collapsed backwards in shock (and probably would have done if it wasn't for the arm that was wrapped around his back supporting him.).

As John pulled away slightly, he was eternally grateful to see the face of the younger of the Holmes duo staring back at him.

Relaxing into the embrace, John allowed Sherlock's head to rest against his own as the taller man explained what was going on.

"Mycroft," Sherlock began, pausing only to press his lips against John's temple "He knows, as you probably gathered." John nodded "He just wanted to make sure…"

"Make sure?" John repeated his forehead creasing as he contemplated the meaning of his words.

"Make sure I know what I'm doing I suppose." Sherlock suggested, his arms tightening around John "If he is still sitting in our living room by the time we return, it would be safe to assume that he wants to talk to you also. Although, I think it may be a good idea to cloth yourself if you do intend on speaking to my brother, as if your reaction to him seeing you half-naked earlier was anything to go by, you'll be struggling to form a sentence."

To punctuate his point, Sherlock let his hand brush across the skin on John's shoulder which caused the smaller man to shudder ever so slightly.

"And If he's not there?"

"Lestrade's been ringing my phone continuously for the past hour, so I believe our next stop would be Scotland Yard."


	11. Lestrade

As it was, Mycroft hadn't considered it worth hanging around the flat; perhaps, John suspected, he had assumed that John and Sherlock would be too…preoccupied to return to the living room.

This thought provoked a light blush to spread across John's face, but not before a slight smile took residence there.

Pulling on his jumper had proved to be more problematic than usual; under Sherlock's watchful eyes he was finding it hard to keep his composure let alone pull the cotton material over his head.

The struggle proved futile, and soon John found himself back to square one; Jumper-less, and blushing furiously.

An amused smile was tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth, which only served to fuel Johns agitation.

"It's not funny," He growled, his voice free of any actual anger however, as he once again attempted to pull on the cream coloured jumper.

Sherlock eventually decided it was time to step in and, striding across the room towards where the shorter man stood, he steadied his movements by placing his hands on John's shoulder.

John raised an inquisitive eyebrow as the taller man span him around to face Sherlock, but didn't complain as Sherlock ordered him to stop fidgeting.

Carefully, Sherlock raised the material above his head, and slipped it through John's arms (that had risen with Sherlock's free arm). His fingers casually stroked across John's exposed skin, causing both men to shudder ever so slightly, and Sherlock shuffled unnoticeably closer; the only clue being the fact that now, John could feel the pressure of Sherlock's hips against his own.

Grinning in thanks, John unconsciously hugged the material closer to his chest and lifted his head at an angle where he could now look Sherlock in the eye.

"Scotland Yard?" John asked.

Coughing slightly bashfully, Sherlock nodded his approval at this announcement.

* * *

><p>The case was painfully simple, Sherlock noted with lack of any interest, it was an open-and-close deal and even Anderson (for all of his incompetence) could have solved the case with ease.<p>

Sherlock supposed the officer(s) heart(s) weren't really in this particular case, probably because with the string of serial murders currently sweeping through London, every other case paled in comparison.

Still, Sherlock also suspected that his own boredom in the case had little to do with the case itself but rather, for the smaller ex-soldier who insisted on walking just a little too close to Sherlock's side to be considered casual.

Not that the detective was complaining at all.

Of course, it would be rather hard to voice any complaints with another's tongue shoved efficiently down your throat.

Sherlock responded in kind; fighting for dominance in their embrace, not stopping even when the cool night air began to make his skin sting.

John pulled slightly back, away from the hug; but close enough to still share the warmth Sherlock's body provided.

"Hey," he murmured his grin widening as Sherlock regarded him with a bemused smile.

"Weren't you aware I was here?" He asked, resting his chin against the top of John's head as he awaited his retort.

"Mmm." John replied pathetically, far too tired to start an intellectual debate over the purposes of formal greetings.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but made no effort to comment on John's inability to form a coherent sentence in favour of pressing his lips against the smaller man's forehead.

"Case is boring." John pointed out obtusely, and Sherlock nodded.

"We can return to Baker Street soon." John grumbled his approval, but his grip didn't loosen around Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock leant further against the cold stone wall of the ally way that John and Sherlock had stumbled into barely ten minutes before, his arms that were secured around John's waist taking the other man with him.

Grunting at the sudden lurch, John grumbled something about 'warning's' but his voice was consumed by the lips that pressed down against his own.

Grinning into the kiss, John traced his hands across the skin of Sherlock's collarbone, making the other man sigh in content.

"Maybe we don't have to return to the crime scene at all." Sherlock said, his suggestion met with an enthusiastic moan from John that could either be owed to the other man's approval, or the fact that Sherlock's tongue was now tracing along his lower lip.

"Bloody hell." The two men fell apart, scattering across the ally way in their haste to create distance between their bodies.

John raised his eyes sheepishly to meet the shock ridden eyes of Gregory Lestrade, whose mouth was gaping unattractively as he looked between the two men

Sherlock had his back towards John and Greg; his forehead resting against the bricks his back had just vacated.

And that's how the entourage stood for a good five minutes, before Greg let out a gruff cough to break the silence that had grown between the trio.

"I should…get back to the crime scene… you two should too." Greg's gaze slid to the ground below "you know…whenever you're ready."

He nodded definitely, as if proud that he had managed to form words that had no relation to 'what the fuck?', and had just began to turn back on his heel and towards the crime scene when John called out his name grabbing his attention once more.

Greg's shoulders slumped in defeat as he was forced to face the awkwardness of the scene once more.

John attempted to convey the words that had been forcing their way to the forefront of his mind, but his mouth was resisting and refusing to comply. John could only hope that his eyes were displaying the question he wanted to pose Greg with.

It must have worked, because Greg promptly replied "I don't see why Sargent Donovan or Anderson have any right to know." Smiling his thanks, John watched Lestrade's retreating back with a slight sigh.

"That didn't last long." Sherlock smiled weakly, referring to the pact of secrecy they had both sworn to the night before.


	12. Everyone apparently

**Sorry that this chapter took me so long _ I just want to thank everyone who is still alerted to this story (: and I really appreciate everyone that favourited and reviewed this story 8D It really means a lot ^_^**

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><p>It had taken John until that evening before his mind strayed back to the recorder that he had safely secured in his bed side table.<p>

The recorder that Anderson had inadvertently (his intentions had yet to be determined) given him that night along with the jacket.

John had contemplated broaching the subject to Sherlock, but the one time the conversation had strayed in that direction, Sherlock had muttered something inane and had taken off out of the room without so much as a backwards glance.

Besides, at present Sherlock had locked himself in the bathroom and (if the slight hisses and curses where anything to go by) was completing a series of experiments, and probably wouldn't be emerging for several more hours to come.

It took a lot of deliberating, but eventually John decided that he couldn't let the problem mull over in his head for a moment longer and he'd left the flat with a slight call of "going out for a bit,".

It struck John, as the taxi pulled up to the station, that without Sherlock it may not be quite so simple to access the station as it usually was, but it wasn't as if he knew where-else Anderson may be and, for reasons he couldn't quite fathom, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was important somehow.

As it was, those he passed just seemed relieved that the tall dark-haired detective wasn't accompanying him and completely looked past the fact that he had no reason to be there.

Admittedly, the entrance of the station was in constant flow of hysterical people (who John presumed to be victims of crimes) and visitors, and John was well and truly camouflaged amongst them, so it wasn't much of an achievement.

Although, this did become more problematic as he slipped into the section of the station were the offices resided but then, even there, he had become such a familiar face that no-body seemed to question his presence, for which he was grateful (and perhaps slightly concerned for the safety of London, if the station was so easy to infiltrate.).

It only occurred to John as he rounded the corner of the hallway that led to Lestrade's office, that he had no idea where Anderson would be; after all, he was a forensics' worker, if he had an office it may very well be at a completely different section of the station.

As luck would have it however, no sooner had this thought crossed John's mind did he spot Anderson standing leaning over a desk where Donovan was sat.

Her eyebrow was raised as she regarded the man looming over her, and it appeared like they were engaged in a heated argument which John was hesitant to interrupt.

As he approached the pair however, they promptly broke off, Donovan's features immediately shifting into a more pleasant expression, which was accompanied by a slight smile upon the realisation that John had come alone.

Anderson looked just as angry as he had been before, only now that glare was directed in John's direction and, not for the first time, John was second guessing his decision to come.

"Can I speak to you for a minute Anderson?" John requested, stumbling around the last word as he tried to search for the man's first name somewhere in his memory but finding nothing.

Anderson shrugged at the inquisitive look Donovan shot at him, "alone?" Anderson asked, now eyeing John warily as if this might be some kind of elaborate ploy from Sherlock to have him murdered.

"If you wouldn't mind, yeah." John affirmed, watching as Anderson shifted awkwardly from foot to foot as he thought it over.

"Yeah, okay." Anderson agreed eventually, inclining his head towards the hallway John had just left as a suggestion for where they could talk.

Allowing Anderson to lead the way, John nodded briskly at Donovan before following the forensics officer.

"What's this about?" Anderson asked, leaning gently against the hallway wall as he waited for John to get on with what he wanted to talk about.

"It's about the jacket that you gave me to give to Sherlock." John said, not wanting to beat around the bush with small talk with a man he'd rather not spend a second too long with.

The corners of Anderson's mouth tugged upwards into a small smile, dispelling any notion that Anderson had been ignorant to the recorder that had been tucked into the jacket pocket, and John couldn't help the frown that had settled upon his face.

"ah, that's what this is about." Anderson seemed wholly more interested in the conversation now, and had even leant forward so as to hear John better, "probably glad I told you then, huh? Have you moved out already?"

John paused to take in Anderson's words, his head shaking in disbelief, but Anderson appeared not to notice, his eyes already glazing over (no doubt as he fantasised about a heart-broken Sherlock, that may well lead to a Sherlock free crime-scene). "Where did you get it? The recording?"

Anderson frowned at the question, momentarily shaken out of his day dream "hmm?"

"Did you record it or what?" John repeated.

"Oh no, took it from Donovan-" Anderson looked like he was going to continue, but John was already taking off around the corner back towards Donovan's open desk, and so he merely followed behind him.

"Really?" John said as he approached the woman, "do you really hate him that much, that you could do something that cruel?" John shook his head "I'd expect that kind of thing from Anderson, but you? Really?"

Donovan looked momentarily confused, until a look of realisation dawned across her face, "What, how did you find out about that? Did he tell you?"

John scowled at the woman "Of course not, I mean, giving it to Anderson to give to me?…regardless of how it turned out, that is crossing a line."

Donovan was already looking over John's shoulder with her eyes narrowed "_you stole from me?_"

Anderson looked startled by the sudden anger directed at him, but made no further comment; instead, he shirked backwards under her glare.

They stood like that for a few moments; John acting like a barrier between Anderson and Donovan, before a smile tugged at Donovan's lips as her eyes flickered across his face.

"Wait...'regardless of how it turned out'? does that mean?"

Despite himself, John could feel his cheeks burn a hot red, and from behind him John could hear Anderson splutter.

"Wha-?" Anderson began, sounding scandalised as he processed the situation, but he was cut off by another voice that had joined the conversation.

"Does that mean what?" Lestrade's voice asked from somewhere behind them.

"I think the freak and John are shagging." Donovan replied, her voice slightly raised at the end of the sentence almost as if it was a question as well as a statement.

"Oh, I knew about that." Lestrade said, as another voice exclaimed in annoyance;

"hey, you never told me.." John span on his heel to see Lestrade approaching flanked with two other inspectors that John recognised as Gregson and Dimmock "Pay up," Gregson had turned to face the other two inspectors with his hand outstretched.

Reluctantly, Dimmock fished about in his pocket and produced a wad of notes that he then placed in Gregson' upturned palm. Lestrade followed suit, his frown somewhat outweighed by the smirk tugging at his lips at the sight of Anderson who was still stood wide-eyed by Donovan's desk.

"And you," Gregson prompted, his hand now pointed in the direction of Anderson who (after recollecting his composure) also produced a small pile of coins from his pocket.

Gregson looked infuriatingly smug as he winked at John (who was still eyeing the entourage with a mixture of bemusement and disbelief) until Donovan whisked away the collection of money that he had accumulated with a brief "thank you,"

Gregson scowled at Donovan, before nodding in defeat and muttering "yeah, I know." Gregson then took off back towards the hallway he had just left, his hand clasping around Dimmock's wrist to tug the smaller man along with him "see you at the pub tonight Greg," he called back over his shoulder, before disappearing around the corner.

"You alright?" Greg asked clapping a hand against John's shoulder, who still looked slightly confused by the whole exchange of money.

"Yeah, just…don't tell Sherlock that you've been bartering about his love life, he'll be furious if he knows Sally won."

"Love life eh?" Lestrade grinned, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at John before a slight nudge into his side from Sally's elbow stopped him. "don't worry about it lover-boy."


End file.
